The Lady and the Unicorn

The very observant reader of this blog might have noticed that I started Rumer Godden's second novel, The Lady and the Unicorn, months ago, and then set it aside for a long time. The reason is quite a daft one: I peeked at the last page and thought I saw something that indicated the death of a little dog. Immediately I shut the book and couldn't bring myself to pick it up again until just before Christmas. This was even before we found out that our own little dog won't be with us for much longer -- maybe it was a presentiment of doom, which would be quite fitting for this novel, which is haunted by ghosts and visions, premonitions and misguided guesses.

It's was Godden's third novel, Black Narcissus, that brought her real success, but The Lady and the Unicorn is a beautiful, sad little tale that contains much of the trademark Godden atmosphere and subject matter. An Anglo-Indian family, caught awkwardly between two communities, live in part of a decrepit mansion, occupied by other families and their landlord. They struggle for money and the white father gambles away anything he finds. Newly arrived from England, Stephen Bright is captivated by the shy younger daughter, Rosa, and by the romance of her dilapidated home, until pressure from his friends and family, and misunderstandings inexorably drive them apart.

The Lady and the Unicorn such a sad novel, but not in the way I first imagined. It's a perfectly constructed ghost story, a mystery, a love story, a keen observation of family and class, a little gem of a novel.
 

Craft for a Dry Lake

Kim Mahood's first book, Craft For a Dry Lake, was much awarded when it was published in 2000, but somehow it passed me by. I came to Mahood's writing via her other books, Position Doubtful and Wandering With Intent, but Craft For a Dry Lake really sets the foundation for the later books and fills in much of the detail of Mahood's early life that has led her to where she is now.

The influence of Mahood's late father, Joe, looms large over these pages. Kim was raised in the Tanami Desert, though her family later moved to Queensland, and the struggle she has returned to the desert to face is rooted deep in her childhood. This land belonged to her family, but it's not their land (the cattle station has been returned to Aboriginal ownership). All her life, she has worn her unusual childhood with both pride and otherness -- yet returning here after many years, she is unsure how to integrate her memories, her sense of self, with the intellectual knowledge that this place was never really hers. She is pulled back to the familiar places, and yet deeply conscious of how alien is her presence there.

It was particularly interesting to read about this inner conflict, because I was aware from the later writing how she has resolved it -- she spends part of the year in the desert, living and making art with the First Nations community, and part of it back in the city, where she can live out the other part of her identity. Mahood has a nuanced, complex understanding of the intensely complicated relations between white and Black Australia, between history and present and future, between personal experience and the weight of the past, and I hope she keeps writing about it. I'm hungry for more.
 

Reading Roundup 2024

Okay, so it's that time again, time to cast a look back at what I read over the last year. In 2024, I turned to my bookshelves and revisited a lot of old childhood favourites: Joan Aiken, Penelope Lively, Susan Cooper, Susan Coolidge, Antonia Forest, Mary Norton, Diana Wynne Jones. This will no doubt account for a preponderance of British lady authors in the re-read category.

Kids'/YA v Adult

As usual, due to my patented three-books-at-a-time reading system (one kids'/YA, one adult fiction, one adult non-fiction), I read about one third kids' books and two thirds books for adults. Though as the kids' books are a bit quicker to get through, it's actually just over a third.

Gender

Sorry, blokes, no attempt at even-handedness this year at all! Lots of lady authors, a handful of non-binary authors or books with mixed male and female writer, and... some gentlemen.

Fiction v non-fiction

No surprises here, as usual, a split of about one third non-fiction to two thirds fiction (I hardly ever read a non-fiction children's book.)

Book source

I made good use of libraries this year! About half my reading came from either my local library (where I tend to reserve new releases) or from the Athenaeum library in the city, where I love to browse the shelves. The Ath doesn't hold reserves for long, and it's not always convenient for me to come in and pick them up when they arrive, so I'd rather relax with some old books from there. I borrowed nine books from friends, and 24 came from my secondhand stash, which is still mysteriously as high as it was at the start of the year, despite my vow to pause buying. I'm not very good at keeping resolutions. It's satisfying to see that I used the Ath so much, it's well worth the membership. No e-books this year because my Kindle has died.

Author origin

Weirdly, this was the first year for a while that I gave up consciously trying to read authors with more diverse backgrounds, and quite by chance I ended up reading a reasonable spread of origins: German, Canadian, Irish and Turkish, as well as the usual mountain of UK authors and a good chunk of Australians. This year I separated out First Nations authors for the first time.

Highlights

I very much enjoyed my trawl through old favourite children's books, especially The Little White Horse and Joan Aiken's Dido Twite stories.

In adult fiction, the standouts were Fiona McFarlane's Highway 13, The Great Believers by Rebecca Makkai, Alison Goodman's The Benevolent Society of Ill-Mannered Ladies, The Goblin Emperor by Katherine Addison, and Louise Erdrich's The Night Watchman.

I read lots of amazing non-fiction in 2024, including Helen Garner's The Season, Nova Weetman's Love, Death and Other Scenes and Would That Be Funny? by Lorin Clarke (all Melbourne women). David Marr's Killing for Country was devastating. Rumer Godden's autobiographical memoirs, A Time to Dance, A Time to Weep and A House With Four Rooms were absolutely beautiful. Dodie Smith's memoirs were very different in tone and moreishly funny. Ursula Le Guin's essay collection, Dreams Must Explain Themselves, gave me lots to chew on. Isabella Tree's Wilding gave me hope that nature can repair itself, given a chance. Inga Simpson's Understory was very moving, as was Kathryn Moore's book about death, With the End in Mind.